If Angels Burn
by TabbieTales
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a great man, but if we're lucky, one day he'll be a good one. Two years after his staged death, Sherlock returns. But not everything is has he left it. There's a woman living in Baker Street now, and John has gone and gotten himself engaged. Idiots! S.H./ OC
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing that is familiar except Amanda. Please enjoy!

Chapter One

Return

 _"Then why do you put up with him?" John asked Detective Inspector Lestrade. The man that John was beginning to understand as a nonsensical logical fellow looked at him for a moment as he thought over his response, John knew he had an answer before he even spoke when he squared his shoulders, as if he thought he'd have to defend his answer which told John that he full heartedly believed it as truth._

 _"Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man and one day, if we're all very lucky, he'll be a good one," was all he said before turning around and heading down the stairs of 221B Baker Street._

News 1

 _"And after extensive police investigation, Richard Brook did indeed prove to be the creation of James Moriarty."_

News 2

" _Admits unprecedented scenes, there was uproar in the court as Sherlock Holmes was vindicated and cleared of all suspicion."_

News 3

" _Sadly, all this comes too late for the detective, who became something of a celebrity two years ago."_

News 1

" _Questions are now being asked as to why police let matters get so far. Sherlock Holmes fell to his death from the top of London's Bart's Hospital. Although he left no note, friends say it's unlikely-"_

Amanda shut the television off with a sigh. _'That poor man,'_ she thought quietly to herself as she glances around the mess that was her new apartment. She understood, now, why Mycroft Holmes refused to accompany her to the building after he'd collected her from the airport. At first she simply thought him to have, begrudgingly, been doing a favour for his mother and father.

Amanda Elise Doyle was the only daughter for Arthur Doyle. A celebrated author and dear friend to Mr. And Mrs. Holmes. Her father and Mr. Holmes had been friends since they were children, when her father had moved from Scotland to London as a boy. After college, or University as her father called it, he'd immigrated to America. He'd met her mother in Seattle, Washington while she'd finished her degree and they'd married a few short years after that. Her mother being from Oklahoma had wanted to be closer to family, and so the Doyle's' had moved to the infamous "Tornado Alley". Then came the baby in the baby carriage in the form of Amanda.

She'd lived in Oklahoma all her life, having never traveled anywhere or done anything remotely interesting. She'd gone to a local college and earned her degree in English but did nothing with it. Her passion was food, though she never had any interest in pursuing that passion as a career. She knew her mind well enough to know that the moment she turned it into a job it would become a chore and she'd grow to hate it.

So Amanda never made a name for herself. She was no great writer like her father nor did she have a mind for science and biology like her mother, and so she drifted from job to job. Much to her father's disappointment. Not that he ever made her feel like he was disappointed in her. The opposite in fact. Arthur Doyle doted on his daughter. Everything she put her mind to was a point of pride for him and he made sure she never went without. Especially after the death of her mother a few years previously. Cancer. Her passing had rocked the foundation of their lives and caused father and daughter to grow closer than ever before.

Amanda's world shook once more that summer when she returned home from work to discover her father had died of a heart attack. He'd left everything to her, with the exception of a few small items that he had requested go to his old friends Mr. And Mrs. Scott Holmes. They'd been at the funeral as well as the reading of the will. Mr. Holmes had been beside himself with grief and she sat with him, the two clinging to one another in their mourning. They stayed at the house with her for a few weeks. Helping her sort through her father's belongings. Most going to charities and schools. Education had been important to him. It was during this time that Mrs. Holmes asked the unthinkable. Would Amanda wish to move to England with them? At first the thought of leaving her home was impossible to her, leaving everything behind becoming frightening, so she told her no as politely as she could. It wasn't until after they'd gone back to England and Amanda had returned home from work late in the night that she couldn't stand it any longer.

Amanda looked around the house that had for so long been a comfort and safe haven to her. No lights had been on, there was no smell of tea, dinner, or even the customary smell of cigar that her father loved to light and just hold. Tonight the house felt like a stranger, one that did not want her there. Biting the inside of her cheek she hurried to her bedroom and fished out her cell phone. She couldn't stay there a moment longer. She called Scott Holmes, a man that was like a distant uncle for her with the frequency of his and his wife's visits. She couldn't impose on them though, even if they had offered her a place.

An image of them and her parents spruced up in wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, and fringed western shirts, waving merrily at her on their way our appeared in her mind unbidden while the phone rand. It was eleven at night for her so she knew it'd be early for them but she was sure he'd be awake. She wasn't wrong. The moment Mr. Holmes answered a sob escaped her lips.

"Uncle Scott?" She asked, trying to reign in her outward emotions. "I've changed my mind. How soon can I move to England?"

The following three weeks had Amanda rushing around the city getting everything in order, from informing banks, to getting a passport, to copies of official documents, packing and putting things she couldn't immediately take with her into storage with directions for the items to be shipped a few days after her departure. She'd made it clear that she wouldn't stay in their home, that she needed one of her own. With only a little protesting, Mr. Holmes had promised he'd see it taken care of and a few hours later his eldest son Mycroft had called her with the details. There had been one condition though. That she not remove the previous tenants belongings, ever. This was the stipulation made by him and the land lady. At first she didn't understand why but had agreed.

Now that she was here, in London, standing in the living room of 221B Baker Street. She completely understood. This was Sherlock's home and his family and friends weren't ready to say goodbye to the last traces of him.

Her heart ached for the family. She'd never had the pleasure of meeting the boys before. Mycroft assisting her in this move having been their first encounter but their parents had said much of two boys with such pride. She wished she'd been able to meet the late Sherlock, to know the amazing man in all the stories. Unfortunately all she had to go off of were his parents, the tabloids, news articles, and the word of Mrs. Hudson.

With a heavy sigh she placed her phone into the iHome station that had once been hi and played her favourite playlist before continuing to unpack her clothes and place them in hangers before taking them up a small flight of stairs to her new bedroom.

A week later saw most of her belongings unpacked and placed in their new homes. Apart from her bedroom, most of her furniture and larger items stayed in storage once they'd arrived. She kept her promise about leaving things as they were. Or as closely as she could. She'd scrubbed the entire kitchen within an inch of its life with the help of Mrs. Hudson. She'd tired to refuse but the kind woman had insisted, simply stating "There are things that Sherlock would bring home that..well things you'd rather not clear out yourself." Mrs. Hudson had been true to her word when a bag of eye balls had been found covered in frost in the freezer.

Unable to cope with the reality that body parts were stored there regularly when Sherlock had been alive, Amanda ordered a new one to be delivered the next morning and the old taken away.

"Thank you so much! And please don't bother looking inside, just have it dumped as quickly as possible," she insisted as she closed the door to the main road behind the delivery men. Letting out a long breath she decided to stop by the land lady's apartment and ask her to dinner as a thank you for her help. She kicked gently in the window pane if the door, the sound of movement could be heard followed shortly by the woman's silhouette just before the door opened.

"Oh sweetie, is anything the matter?" Mrs. Hudson crooned in concern, opening the door wide. Amanda smiled brightly at her. She really was the sweetest little old lady you could possibly meet.

"Absolutely not, ma'am. I just wanted to thank you for all the help you've given me by cooking dinner for you tonight, if you'd like?" She asked with sincerity. Her landlady lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Oh, well aren't you just wonderful! Though I don't know how I feel about this 'ma'am' business. Makes one feel quite old," she rambled though still beaming. Amanda couldn't help the grin that spread across her face by the way different ways the word had been spoken. From Amanda the a came out like lamb with her American accent, but for Mrs. Hudson it sounded like a regal form of 'mom'. She never tired of hearing the differences. Everything sounded far more important and proper when the English spoke it. When she spoke she thought she sounded crude by comparison. Get Amanda out opinion town or at work though and wow did she miss the twang and drawl of her Okie rednecks. At least she understood the slang and butchering if the English language from that side of the globe. Here it was life a separate language all on its own and she found it exhausting to keep up. Mrs. Hudson was a relief.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson" she stressed kindly, indicating she'd try to avoid the word again. "It won't happen again. Well I won't take up more of your time, will seven be alright for dinner?" She asked, leaning forward and gently hugging the woman. She stifled a giggle as her surprise by the embrace. She couldn't help it. She was always affectionate towards others, often calling her customers dear or sweetheart. Fortunately she hadn't had much complaint from her British clientele, but she could tell it wasn't as endearing here at it was in Oklahoma. She'd have to try to curb her terms of endearment. She doubted she could stop her habit of hugs though.

"Wh-why certainly that would be lovely. I'll bring up a nice treat for desert, shall I?" She asked warmly, finally composing herself.

"You don't have to go to the trouble, but desert sound wonderful." Amanda gave her landlady a small wave before bounding back up the stairs to prepare for later that night. Closing the door she looked around and groaned. She would need to dust and vacuum. Standing up straight she squared her shoulders as if she were going into battle and made for the cabinet under the sink. Once retrieving her cleaning supplies she opened the windows wide and set to work, her music still playing.

Back downstairs Amanda missed the arrival of an attractive young man. He eye'd her form as it retreated into the flat upstairs and shut the door, before turning his attention to the closed door next to him. Squaring his own shoulders for his own inner battle he approached in to knock before it flung open again to reveal a very confused looking Mrs. Hudson. With an indignant huff she spun in her heel and went back into her flat without a word, the door being left wide open being his only invitation. With a heavy, tired, sigh John Watson followed his former landlady into her home and sat down quietly at her little breakfast table. Her back was too him as she puttered around the small kitchen, the slamming if cabinet doors and China his only company before she started forcefully slamming a prepared tea set onto the table while the kettle boiled.

"Oh no, you don't take it do you?" She said pointing to a little bowl of sugar, her voice thick with agitation. Agitation John was feeling as well. Though not so much at her rude welcoming than at himself for clearing having broken the little old woman's heart by his departure. He breathes heavily through his nose a moment longer, his mouth clamped firmly shut.

"No," he finally admitted with a shake of his head, hoping his voice didn't actually sound as harsh as he thought it did. A sarcastic sigh left her lips, but her shoulders began to slump as the heat from her anger left, leaving her deflated and looking sad.

"you forget a little thing like that," she said, staring blankly at the sugar bowl.

"Yes," he stated simply, not sure if she would snap at him or not. A little bit of the steam returned to her.

"You forget lots of little things, it seems," she snipped, looking at him now. She wasn't talking about how he took his tea anymore. She clearly meant herself as the forgotten little thing.

"uh-huh" he affirmed looking away, feeling shame for having stayed away for so long. It was just too painful, being here.

"Nor sure about that," she said, her tone lighter rubbing her index finger across her upper lip to indicate the thick moustache he'd been growing. "Ages you." She dead panned.

"just trying it out" he said flatly, avoiding a rude eye roll.

"well it ages you," she repeated.

"look-" John began but was cut short.

"I'm not your mother. I've no right to expect it." She said defensively her hands up in a similar gesture , though the paid was clear in her voice.

"No," he said, not sure if he was trying to correct her or agree.

"But just one phone call, John! Just one phone call would have done." He hated this, hated that he'd hurt Mrs. Hudson one of the sweetest people he knew and there she was looking like she'd cry and because of him.

"I know," he answered quietly, staring at his hands unable to look her in the eye for the moment.

"After all we went through!" She protested again.

"Yes." He was on a roll with his monosyllabic responses. She deserved a better answer. He gave a deflated shrug finally looking her in the eye.

"I am sorry." He told her with all sincerity. What else could he say? A small smile pulled at her lips before sitting down beside him.

"Look, I understand how difficult it must have been after...after" she couldn't bring herself to say the words either it seemed.

"I just let it slide, Mrs, Hudson, I let it all slide." He tried to explain. "And it just got harder and harder to pick up the phone somehow." He heaved a sigh through his nose staring at his hands for a moment. He felt better, telling her these things, but he felt raw from it. "Do you know what I mean?" He asked. Hoping she could relate to the pressure that one phone call had after so much time had passed. He'd thought about it often, but each time he'd stop himself because he'd felt like he'd ignored her for too long.

Mrs. Hudson let out a sad sigh and grasped his hands. The awkwardness suddenly evaporating and all things forgive, they could be on the road to mending properly now. After a few more moments of silence the kettle began to whistle and she got up and set about pouring the tea for them both.

"Mycroft tells me you've let out our old flat to someone," he began. He felt slightly betrayed, but it was more than time for it to have happened.

Mrs. Hudson smiled brightly before looking at him. "A very sweet young thing, a little younger than you I believe. She's from America. Oklahoma apparently, never been there, having only lived in Florida with Mr. Hudson before his arrest." She explained before seeing the look on his face. She hurried to reassure him. "Her stay is under the condition that she not remove anything of his. Everything is more or less the same. She's respected this wish. It was actually Mycroft who got me to agree to let it to her. Apparently she is a family friend of the parents." She explained. That caught John's attention. She hadn't been to the funeral, and she'd never been mentioned by either of the Holmes brothers.

"What's her name?" He asked curiously. If she was someone who was a friend of the Holmes family, and she was respecting Sherlock's belongings by leaving them all intact, then he felt a little less ill about a stranger living in his old home.

"Miss Amanda Doyle." She told him happily. "She is cooking me dinner tonight as a thank you for all my help. Something you boys never did before," she huffed half heartedly.

John couldn't help but chuckle. The woman deserved to have someone around that treated her kindly and did for her on occasion. She was right he and Sherlock had been abhorrent tenants, treating her more like a maid and cook. Though in his defence she always did those things even when he did protest. He'd have to introduce himself to the woman upstairs. He nodded when Mrs. Hudson suggested just that and slowly got up form his seat. Giving the woman a hug and peck on her cheek before heading for the stairs. He wasn't entirely sure he was prepared to see the old flat, but if he didn't it would only become harder to later.

"I need you to give this matter your full attention Sherlock, is that quite clear?" Mycroft instructed impatiently as his younger brother dressed in some proper clothes as apposed to those disgusting rags he had on earlier.

"What do you think of this shirt?" Sherlock asked, tucking the shirt tails into his trousers as he evaluated himself in the mirror. Mycroft seethed, he wasn't paying this any mind!

"Sherlock!" He snapped impatiently. He wanted to get out of this god damned place and back to his comfortable chair in London. He couldn't do that until he was certain Sherlock was fulling appraised of what he needed to do and had all the relevant information.

"I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft." Sherlock finally answered, twisting from side to side as he continued evaluating his appearance. Mycroft was accustomed to Sherlock being overly finicky about his dress, it agitated him. "Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in. Feel every quiver of its beating heart." 'Always the damn drama queen.' Mycroft thought, trying to deduce why his baby brother was fussing over himself so much.

"One of our men died getting this information," Anthea was saying, sounding rather put out by his brother. Mycroft placed his hands on his hips and gave the normally silent woman an annoyed glance before returning it to Sherlock. "All the chatter, all the traffic concurs, there's going to be a terrorist strike on London, a big one." She finished as though that said everything for someone like Sherlock Holmes. Sweet thing, she really could be dim sometimes.

"And what about John Watson?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the information and he pulled on his blazer, straightening and re straightening the collar.

"John?" Mycroft asked in confusion. What could the former soldier have to do with anything?

"Hmm, have you seen him?" He asked. _'Ah and there it is,'_ Mycroft thought triumphantly. The reason for the fussing and the lack of interest. He was anxious to get back to London to see his friend. _'Does he really believe it'll be that simple?'_ He wondered.

"Oh yes, we meet up every Friday for fish and chips," he answer d sarcastically. Sherlock looked at him and rolled his eyes, but Mycroft caught the glint of disappointment over the lack of news about his friend. Rolling his own eyes he gave a slight nod for Anthea to hand over the file he kept on the doctor.

"I've kept a weather eye on him, of course." He told him as Sherlock took the proffered folder from her. "We haven't been in touch at all to prepare him."

"No." Sherlock responded, drawing out the n as he examined a photo of John at the top of the documents inside. "Well, we'll have to get rid of that," he declared.

"We?" Mycroft asked clearly having no intention of helping with whatever it was Sherlock was referring to.

"He looks ancient," Sherlock explained as if he were insulted by the moustache. "I can't be seen wandering around with an old man." He tossed the file on the desk and went back to fussing over his blazer. Letting out a sigh of excitement.

"I think I'll surprise John." He told him. "He'll be delighted." A smile crossed his face.

 _'oh this will be good'_ Mycroft chuckled inwardly.

"You think so?" He asked Sherlock aloud. He really was clueless. Sherlock hasn't even heard him. Just kept imagining his big dramatic reveal.

"Hmm pop into Baker Street, who knows, jump out of a cake." He glanced at Mycroft as if to ask him what he thought of the idea.

"Baker Street?" He asked instead. "He isn't there any more." That got his attention, Sherlock's head jerking to look at him, his expression serious and confused. "Why would he be? It's been two years." Mycroft explained slowly. A bit of the fun dried up when he noticed the brief flicker of sadness cross his brothers face. Despite whatever he said, he did still want his brother to be safe and relatively happy. Not that he would ever admit that. "He's got on with his life."

"What life? I've been away." The sas crept back into his brothers voice as he covered up whatever he was feeling. Sherlock turned to face him fully. "Where's he going to be tonight?"

"How would I know?" He asked, feigning disinterest. He was tiring of this topic. He had more important things to focus on, John Watson was not one of them.

"You always know."

"He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road," he conceded. "Nice little spot. they have a few bottles of the 2000 St Emilion, though, I prefer the 2001." He was rambling he knew, but he didn't care, giving Sherlock time to think over the information he'd shared with him.

"I think maybe I'll just drop by." Sherlock announced.

"You know, it is just possible that you won't be welcome." He warned quietly.

"No, it isn't." He sounded as though he thought Mycroft absurd, funny, he felt the same about him. "Now where is it?" He asked abruptly putting an end to the discussion,

"Where's what" he asked his little brother innocently.

"You know what." He stated plainly as Anthea stepped back into the little office, holding out the familiar wool coat that Sherlock Holmes was rarely without. A smile spread across his face one again and he slipped it on once more, flipping the collar up.

"welcome back, Mr. Holmes." She said to him. Sherlock was turning to leave, believing their business was finished.

"There is just one other matter of business I am obligated to discuss with you," Mycroft called out walking towards his desk just as Sherlock started out the door. How he enjoyed jerking his brother back at a whim. Sherlock turned back to him, an expectant look on his face. Mycroft slipped a blank Manila envelope from johns folder and held it out towards the younger Holmes.

"What is it?" He asked impatiently, striding forward to snatch the envelope out of his brothers hand and opening it. Inside were two black and white photos of a woman. Sherlock did not recognise the young woman in the photograph but instantly noting the room behind her.

"Who is this, and why is she in my flat?" Mycroft could hear the tones of anger and confusion in his voice and smirked at Sherlock.

"That, brother mine, is you're new flat mate. Miss Amanda Doyle."

Amanda hummed to herself as she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a fluffy orange towel. In spite of living in the home of a dead man she was feeling extremely chipper. It was her second full day in London and she'd managed to organise nearly all of her belongings apart from some boxed marked for the kitchen. She'd ordered take out earlier and has sat on the floor going through one box that had many of her cook books. Some she'd placed in the kitchen counter near the kettle and knife block, while others she stacked and debated on where to place them. Kitchen or shelf? Growing tired of the project she'd thrown her trash into the garbage and gone to shower before bed. It was already past ten o'clock in the evening. Sitting on the warn leather armchair she'd fallen asleep it the night before she continued to hum to herself as she brushed out her hair, thinking back on the previous night. She'd briefly met John Watson the evening before, the man whose room she now lived in. He'd been really kind towards her.

 _~When Mrs. Hudson had brought him up she'd been condensing the bookcases. Staying as true to her word about respecting the belongings if Mr. Sherlock Holmes but needing some space herself. She'd successfully managed to shift everything to one side of the fire place, the side closet to the open windows that now hung bare as she washed the draperies, while managing to keep them all in some semblance of the same order._

 _When John had entered he'd stood in the door frame silently observing the changes that were so drastic despite the minute scale and subtly. Every surface was cleaned and polished, the couch has been treated with a conditioner for leather, the pillows fluffed. The TV that once sat on a tray on the floor now sat on the wide shelf the to the left of the fireplace. His chair looked like it's been shampooed and fluffed. It stood brighter than it had been when she arrived and she momentarily wondered if she'd crossed a line in her sorting and cleaning. It was hard for her to tell what had been from disuse or was just kept that way._

 _"You've certainly brightened this place up," he finally spoke, bringing his attention to her, giving Amanda the barest of smiles before extending his and in greeting._

 _"It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Watson." She greeted him smiling brightly. She couldn't help notice how he looked her up and down as though he were studying her. It made her feel as though she were trying to pass a test._

" _Call me John, please." He looked around and noticed the kitchen, sparkling and clean. Then he noticed the brand new refrigerator and barked with laughter, a sound that sounded horse from disuse. Knowing that he'd lived here with Sherlock, had worked with him, she suspected he hadn't had much cause for laughter like that in a long while._

 _"Mind you, he would have hated every bit of it. Would always shout at Mrs. Hudson when she'd try to tidy things up a bit. Called is organised chaos, he did." He was talking more to himself and was walking in slow circles before his eyes landed on the violin case resting stop the cluttered and messy desk. Amanda looked to see what had caught his eye._

 _"I'd thought about cleaning it up, but it help like an invasion of privacy some how. I didn't know where to put the instrument. I haven't gone near the other bedroom." He smiled at her, had thanked her for letting him visit and told her he was grateful to have someone that seems so nice there to keep an eye on Mrs. Hudson before hurriedly saying good bye and leaving._

 _Mrs. Hudson has apologised for John's behaviour but she waved her off. She suspected it must have been difficult being there, changes or not. She held no hard feelings towards the handsome, if somewhat haggard Doctor._

 _Dinner later on had gone well. She'd made her signature Chicken Marsala over home made mashed potatoes and green beans along with bottle of red wine. All of which Mrs. Hudson praised throughout, embarrassing Amanda. After she'd left she'd stayed up cleaning a bit more. The curtains had been replaced and hung closed over the floor length windows and a fire was burning happily. By the time she'd finished everything she'd been willing to touch, she'd fallen asleep in the warn leather armchair next to the fire.~_

Amanda had just finished dressing into a pair of grey Capri night pants and a white camisole when she hear her landlady screaming downstairs. Heart sinking she grabbed a can of wasp killer that she kept for protection. She had remembered reading a report about using wasp killer in place of pepper spray because it had a much farther reach and hurt like a bitch, so she'd made sure to purchase some earlier that day.

Racing down the stairs two at a time she was prepared to spray whoever was down there in the face when she stopped dead at the sight before her. Mrs. Hudson was hugging and kissing a very tall man who was currently bent over with her hands on his face. He looked extremely uncomfortable until the commotion of Amanda storming down the stairs distracted them both to look at her. Mrs. Hudson was practically bouncing with joy repeating "I can't believe it!" Over and over again. The unknown man had stood up straight and was straightening his coat while eyeing her with a raised brow.

"I-I heard scr-screams..." She stammered in confusion. Mrs. Hudson has started apologising profusely for scaring her and started rambling about her surprise at the strangers arrival. But Amanda was hardly listening. She stood on the steps, nearly eye level to him, unable to take her eyes off of him. His thick mop of brown curled, his long face, defined cuspids bow upper lip, and those shocking eyes. She'd call them blue but she could swear there was gold, or green in them. Apart from a small gash on his lower lip and some bruising on his node, he was utterly striking. They kept staring at one another until something Mrs. Hudson said broke through.

"I'm sorry, did you say Sherlock?" She asked in disbelief looking between the two of them. "How is that possible?"

"I assure you Miss...Doyle is it? That it's completely possible since I am standing right here." He said assuredly, almost like she was missing something completely obvious. She sucked in a sharp breath,

"You know who I am?" She asked.

"No, but if you would be so kind as to gather your belongings and move out of my flat, I'll endeavour to be grateful,"

"I beg your pardon?!" She asked in surprise at his audacity.

"You heard me, pack your things and be on your way," he repeated, voice smug.

"Oh the hell I will," feeling her temper rise she turned to her landlady and gave her a tight smile, "Mrs. Hudson, ma'am, I hope you have a pleasant evening. Good night" she said before spinning on her heel and marching back up the stairs and closing the door behind her.

A/N: Well I hope you've all enjoyed that! I needed a little something to focus on along side my a hobbit story. Please review!

Cheers!

T.T.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Living Arrangements.

Amanda huffed as the door of the apartment shut behind her and leaned against it, she could hardly believe his rudeness.

"I'm not going anywhere." giving a final huff of frustration she brushed aside the encounter and moved to the kitchen. Opening a cabinet above the counter she fished out a bottle of wine and began searching for her bottle opener in one of the drawers. Finding it she began to screw the device into the top. She could hear the front door to the apartment opening and shutting as she popped the cork out of the bottle.

Somehow she knew it wasn't Mrs. Hudson, though she sort of wished it would have been. With a sigh she fetched the now clean wine glasses from the night before and took them and the bottle with her to the living room to see Sherlock standing there in the center, hands clasped behind his back as his eyes racked over evert inch of his home. Setting them on the coffee table she slumped into the worn leather seat she'd taken exception to and sighed, ignoring the way his eyes snapped to her and boring holes into her. The room filled with a heavy silence

"That's my chair," his deep voice filled the space breaking the silent bubble they'd found themselves in. She only stared at him.

"I'm sorry?" she asked in a small voice, utterly confused.

"That chair, the chair you are sitting in. That is my chair, my favourite chair in fact, I'd like to have it back." He elaborated, his deep voice beginning to sounds irritated. Amanda just blinked up at him for several long minutes before looking down at herself before standing up and vacating the seat and moving to the one across from it.

"I didn't know, sorry." it took a second for what she said to register with her as she watched him plop happily into the now empty seat. "Hang on, why am I apologising?" Sherlock only ignored her. He was now looking around him as though he'd misplaced something. "What are you looking for?" She asked exasperatedly.

"You've moved the furniture." He accused, still looking about him before standing.

"I've done no such thing."

"Yes you have," He began shifting his chair a few inches forwards and and slid it away from the fireplace a little.

"I did not such thing! All I've done was clean. I may have pushed it back to vacuum the rug but I put it right back!" _What is his problem?_ her mind shouted.

"See? You moved the furniture. In the future, please refrain from partaking in such activities. I don't like what it does to the place."

"You mean cleaning?" she asked her mouth agape.

"Of course." he said simply, steepling his fingers and eyeing her. "I believe you were going to offer me a drink." he added expectantly.

"Oh? I was, was I?" she snapped, crossing one leg over the other and her arms in front of her. _'Cocky bastard.'_ She thought to herself.

"Earlier you brought out an opened bottle of wine and two glasses. As your state of undress indicates you were not expecting company coupled with your lack of comment when you saw that it was me that had entered and not Mrs. Hudson only suggests that you were planning on offering a glass to me," he explained as if it were the most obvious thing on the planet.

"Would you care for a glass of wine?" she asked with a sigh, standing once more to pour herself a glass.

"That would be lovely, thank you for asking," He answered, sounding bored, extending his hand without so much as a glance.

Amanda couldn't help the laugh that escaped her, all her previous frustration at Sherlock evaporating.

"You do this a lot, don't you?" She asked, her voice now light with humour as she handed him the glass of wine.

"Do what?" He asked, making eye contact with her once again.

"Intentionally act the ass and piss people off." She supplemented.

"Intentionally? Not usually, but I am told that a lot." he watched as Amanda only nodded.

She decided to let his behaviour slide, if he was anything like the stories, or his brother for that matter, then it wasn't usually personal.

"So..." She began quietly, once again admiring his remarkably handsome figure. "You aren't dead." She stated.

"Clearly," he added.

"How is that even possible?" She asked gently, genuinely in awe that for two years the whole world believed this amazing man had been dead.

"By staying alive," was all he said. She couldn't help the eye roll as she sat back down in the plush chair across from him. Instead of asking him to elaborate she chose to ignore his obvious avoidance of the issue and instead leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, drink held between her palms as she studied him.

"Mrs. Hudson tells me you're a genius. That you can tell everything there is to know about a person just by looking at them. Are you really that good?" She asked him curiously. Even with his grating manners Amanda couldn't help but find herself fascinated by the tall man across from her. He instantly intrigued her and left her wanting to send a barrage of questions at him. Was he really such an amazing detective? Why had he'd faked his death if the criminal..Morris or something or other.. was dead? And why had it taken him two years to come back? Or why at all?

Amanda's mind instantly quieted from the mental list of questions with the calculating stare to turned on her while taking a deep pull from his glass, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when he lowered it. She'd never been watched so intently before. She found it both thrilling and unnerving _'God he should smile more, he looks years younger.'_

Unbeknownst to the woman before him Sherlock was reading as much information from her and the room as he could. Granted some of it was a cheat since he'd gained a little insight from Mycroft earlier on. She didn't need to know that though.

Amanda Elise Doyle. American, bright strawberry blonde hair, or dull blonde depending on the light and opinion. His was inclined to strawberry. 5'2" thin but healthy with lush curves at her sides and and soft but strong legs. She clearly wasn't athletic due to the lack of definition to her muscles but the specialty shoes on the floor by the couch suggested she was a climber. A hobby. Her appearance suggests she was in her early twenties but he knows she was 28 thanks to his brother. If she'd been a few inches taller DI Lestrade would have called her a "knockout", though he failed to see the connection between her physical appearance and boxing. He just knew that's what he called every attractive woman he met. Unfortunately her height prevented any chance of being a target of the now single inspector. He only liked tall red heads, preferably ones with loose morals if the now ex Mrs. Lestrade was any indication. She smelled of freshly ground coffee, the scent having caught his notice when he'd taken back his seat. Seeing as the flat did not omit the same fragrance he knew she had once worked in a café and the smell still lingered in a pleasant manner. She couldn't be employed yet since she'd been in London all of 72 hours. Glancing around the room at the changes that her presence had caused, he spotted books on cooking stacked neatly on the floor near an unpacked box next to John's chair. Oil stains and the soft waves of the pages suggested that she used them often and while she cooked. Another hobby. There were faint traces of animal fur in her clothes. He doubted she'd have left a companion behind so he knew she enjoyed being around them. A friends or a shelter?

"Mister Holmes?" She asked, pulling him out of his deductions. Something in her tone made him glance back at here. Fear? No too soft for that. Nervous curiosity perhaps.

"You're 28, nonathletic though you enjoy the sport of indoor climbing. You also enjoy cooking. You're recently here from America, a permanent move, and yet you are living on your own. No family in the country but too far a move to leave any close family behind. Only child, parents are dead. You also used to work in a coffee shop before your move. You have no pets, a blessing if ever there was one, but fur on your lounge pants suggest you like animals."

Finishing he watched her for a reaction. Would she be like everyone else and tell him to 'piss off' or become the second oddity in his life that found him fascinating. He noted that she took a small sharp intake of breath at the mention of her parents but said nothing, instead staying quiet for a moment.

"Well.." She finally spoke, her voice taking on a breathy quality. " That was kind of amazing."

"Aren't you going to ask me home I knew that?" He asked her after a few minutes of silence, watching each other.

"Nope." She said simp,y, popping the 'P'. "Would spoil the magic,"

A smile tugged at his mouth a second time that night. If he was going to be forced to share a living space with the blonde, thanks to mummy and daddy, he was at least glad she possibly wouldn't pose as a constant head ache for him.

"I am merely observing what others do not see," he said nonchalantly, feeling rather smug as he told her anyway. She laughed quietly again,

"Oh well you are absolutely welcomed to keep at it, Mister Holmes." She said between giggles. With a sigh she straightened up and set her nearly empty glass of wine on the side table. "I should have asked, have you had supper yet?" She asked making to stand from the chair, stretching her bare arms above her head.

"Supper? No I haven't." He answered, raising a dark brow in curiosity.

"Breakfast for dinner sound alright? I haven't much in the fridge yet so it's really all I can offer, " she offered, heading into the spotless kitchen.

"Breakfast for dinner?" 'Now there's a novel concept,' she chuckled inwardly at the absurdity of 'breakfast for dinner'. Though if he was honest he did prefer breakfast.

"Breakfast would be lovely." And he sat there watching his new flat mate putter around the kitchen, preparing his mean. After a few minutes he stood from his seat and strode to his desk as the smell of bacon and eggs filled the small living space. As he waited he opened the case containing his violin and pulled it out, testing the notes of the unused strings. Satisfied he brought the instrument up to the crook of his neck and shoulder and drew the bow slowly across the neck, a long wavering note rang out, ushering in the start of a song.

Amanda listened to the violin music that filled the room as she grated potatoes for hash browns. His playing absolutely the most beautiful sound she'd ever had the pleasure of hearing. Mrs, Hudson had said she'd missed moments like this, she could see why.

Sherlock continued to play the whole while she prepared his meal. Only stopping as she set a plate full of fried eggs, bacon, hash browns, and toast on the table for him. Before she could even enter the living room to tell him, the music had stopped and he was walking towards her.

"You play beautifully, Mister Holmes." She said smiling, stepping aside so he could take a seat.

"Thank you. The food looks splendid," he complimented, unused to such simple serving looking so mouth watering. Sitting down he paused. "Call me Sherlock," he added before tucking into his meal.

"Sherlock," she smiled, saying his name properly for the first time since he'd 'returned from the dead'. Returning to the counter she began cleaning up the mess of her cooking, enjoying the quiet as her new roommate ate in silence. Once she finished she dried her hands and hung the dish rag over the edge of the sink.

"On that note, I think I'll go to bed. It's nearly midnight. Just leave the dishes in the sink, I'll take care of them in the morning,"

Sherlock merely nodded his head in response.

"Good night Sherlock Holmes. I'm glad you're back." She told him, giving his shoulder a soft squeeze as she passed.

"Why would my being back matter to you?" He asked, sounding utterly dumbfounded as to her comment. Amanda smiled brightly at him from the doorway to the stairs.

"Because if you hadn't I never would have met you and I'm glad Uncle Scott and Aunty Moira have their son back,"

"Uncle Scott...A-Aunty...what?" He spluttered over a fork full of egg turning to gape at her. Amanda couldn't help the yelp of laughter at his surprise.

"Yes, of course! They are close friends of my father. Surely that brilliant brain of yours figured out they are part of the reason I am here?"

"I absolutely knew that!" He defended. "But aunty?!" He cried aghast at anyone being so affectionate about his parents. Amanda continued to laugh and waved at him as she left.

"Goodnight Sherlock!"

AN: Rather short compared to chapter one. Just this was more getting them settled out of my way as well as trying to find my footing with portraying Sherlock. Have to admit I find doing anything in his point of view rather intimidating! I don't want sentiment saturating him but I also don't want to make him too robotic! Seriously just kept watching scenes with him enter acting on a non case basis over and over until I felt okay with what I'd written! Huge sigh!

Well I hope you all have enjoyed this. I'm looking forward to writing more. Just a heads up I might not have a chance to finish the next chapter before the end of the weekend. My bachelorette party is taking place so I'll be preoccupied! Hope to come back to glowing reviews!

As always

Cheers!

T.T.


End file.
